Short Horror Stories

 Yeah, I know... it's a little early for Halloween. But it's never a bad time for some scary stories. I've put a few down here, and some are inspired by legends and stuff I've read. So go grab your blankets, grab your pillows, grab a friend or two, and grab your snacks—you're about to read some scary stuff. Or maybe you're scared of nothing and you find these funny. Either way, I hope you enjoy.

Vampires
Have you ever walked into a room and seen a vampire? No, not the ones from The Vampire Diaries or Twilight. I’m talking about a horrendous, hideous, wiry, rattling, hissing creature, with crooked, yellow fangs and glowing red eyes. Their long, hooked claws perched on a desk or chair, their noses twitching at the scent of human flesh. Have they ever leaped into the air like bats and dug their nails into your scalp, tearing it in half and cracking your skull wide open? Have they stuck their faces into your brain, but have they done it without allowing you to feel the pain of it? Have you then realized that not all vampires feed off of flesh, but that some, a rare kind, will feed off of memories? You most likely haven’t. But let me rephrase the question. Have you ever walked into a room and forgotten why you came in?

Your Demons
Hello, dear. You probably don’t know who I am. But my brothers and I, we are your demons. Just like everyone has angels, everyone has demons, too. There has to be a balance. My younger brother, Shame, sits on your left shoulder. He tells you that you’re a freak, that you’ll never fit in, that you’ll never have real friends because you’re too stupid and weird. Fear is my older brother, who sits on your right shoulder. He outlines the silhouettes of the monsters that devour your feelings. He is the one keeping you from trying new things, because he tells you that no one should see you fail because then, you’ll be a failure. And I'm the worst one, but you see me as a friend. I make you turn to me when you have nothing else, when you’re just about to give up. And then I prolong your torture and make you feel every bit of it until at some point, your angels take you away. I force you to endure your pain and suffering. And I’ll never stop, because even after reading this, you’ll still see me as your friend.

Sincerely, Hope.

They Say Insanity…
They say insanity is when you do the same thing over and over and expect different results. I see why they came up with that definition, but they got it all wrong. Just ask me. I originally entered the building because my friends dared me to. Plus, my brother told me he’d give me a hundred dollars if I succeeded, and I needed the money. The building was old and creepy, but all I had to do was climb the stairs to the 45th floor. Seemed fairly normal. Sure, the building was old and rickety and was pretty much just termites holding hands, but stairs wasn’t a big problem. So I went inside, and the first thing I smelled was this horrible stench… something like rotting flesh. But even once I heaved my way to the 30th floor, I felt relieved that there were no ghosts, no demons, no cannibals or anything of that sort. My phone didn’t work up there, the network must’ve been bad. Finally, after hours of huffing and puffing, I read the numbers engraved on the plaque. 43. Just two more flights of stairs and my bet would be complete, my hundred dollars in my pockets. 44. Just one more. 44. Wait, what? I went up yet another flight of stairs. 44. I went down 10 flights of stairs. Still 44. I went down 15 flights. Still 44. And it’s been like that ever since. So no, insanity isn’t doing the same thing over and over and expecting the same results. Insanity is knowing that no matter what you do, your results will be the same. Insanity is knowing that you’ll never wake up again. It's when the sobbing slowly turns into laughter.

Murderer
Watching TV, a news headline catches your ear. A murderer just broke out of prison and is on the loose. A picture of her is pasted right next to the two news anchors, who look about as equally terrified as you. Suddenly, you jerk your head to your window. Shut closed, but blinds drawn widely open. A woman is standing directly on the opposite side of your window in the snow, smiling wide. She fits the profile of the murderer on the TV screen. Nerves frozen, you pick up your phone and dial 911. Pressing your phone to your ear, you feel a shiver down your spine. Your gaping mouth struggles to breathe. There are no footprints in the snow. You look back at the smiling face, appearing a little closer now. The face isn’t her face at all. It’s her reflection.

I’m A 911 Operator
I’m a 911 operator. I make more money than most of my colleagues, but it’s not because I do my job well. It’s because I work for someone else, too, besides my grumpy boss. But this job pays well, and I recently got a promotion, so I quit the other job. It was tiring and risky. I never wanted to go back. Until recently, when the situation demanded it and I was in a tight financial place.
I got a call from a frantic young man, who sounded to be about 20 or 25 years of age. It sounded like he was pacing back and forth in his house, breathing heavily. I heard another pair of footsteps in the house, but had no idea where they were coming from. I assumed it was his girlfriend or mother or someone like that.
“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?” I said robotically.
“Hi, um, there’s someone in my house,” he responded quietly. “I think he’s trying to kill me.”
I thought for a while, the heat of the situation growing on me. “Okay, sir, you need to do exactly as I say. The police will be there soon.”
“Okay… but please hurry, I think he’s insane…”
“Sir, I need you to go into the nearest room with a lock on the door.”
He paused for a moment. “Okay, I’m in. Should I turn on the lights to let the police know I’m in here?”
“No, sir, leave the lights off.” It was now my turn to let out a long pause. The silence was unnerving.
The man continued. “So what should I do now?”
I sighed, but seeing that I needed the extra money, I had no choice. “When he tears you limb from limb and crushes your skull under his foot, try not to make a sound. I’ve pleaded with him to make it quick.”
I placed the phone back down, thankful that we each had our own soundproof rooms. It would’ve been hard to block out his screams if my jealous colleagues had heard them.
I love being a 911 operator.

The Hanging Tree

I was told my mother would return home within a few minutes’ time. I was told the same about my father. And my brother. I do not know what happened to my sister. But none of them returned home. So I spend my days swinging from a branch on the tall banyan tree, calling for them to return home. The villagers walk past me and whisper things to each other. I reckon they talk about my parents. My siblings. The rest of my family. Recently a young boy joined me in my play by the banyan tree. He swings the same way I do. He tells me that his family left him, too, right here. He points oddly to the branch he swings on. I continue to swing on mine, my dainty feet hovering just barely above the ground below me. The villagers still whisper. The boy, he continues to swing. The villagers scream at us while we play. Still we hang and sway, our limp, lifeless bodies dancing like blades of grass in the winds.

Patient

I enjoyed working at my town's local hospital, even though I was told it was haunted. Sure, there were a few unnerving occurrences sometimes, but all hospitals are scary in their own way. I stopped working there yesterday. All because of Cassandra.

She got on the elevator with me about three weeks ago, and we hit it off instantly. We had a lot of the same interests, and I wasn't usually up for making new friends here. Apparently she was new and wanted to work here until she got a medical doctorate and could move abroad. We started to hang out with each other in the break room, but never outside of work. She said she didn't get out much.

Two days ago, we got on the elevator at the 13th floor, as usual. The elevator descended as we talked about what we were going to do for Christmas. Just then, the elevator stopped at the 7th floor, opening the doors to reveal an old man, limping to the elevator. He was yelling the words "HELP ME!" very loudly as he walked as fast as he could to the elevator. As he got closer, I noticed the crazed eyes, the pale skin, the cut on his forehead... and the shiny red band around his left wrist.

I immediately began jamming the button in the elevator that closed the doors. Cassandra protested all the while, and the man began screaming louder and louder. Finally, just before he put his hands in the gap, the door closed. He pounded on the doors, but we were already descending.

"What was that for?" Cassandra asked. "We have to help him!"

"We can't help him," I replied. "Didn't you see the red wristband he had on? We only put those on patients who have died."

Cassandra's mouth opened wide as she stepped back in the elevator. She sunk to the floor.

"What's wrong?" I asked. She didn't respond, but I saw her eyes go down to my arms, crossed in front of my chest.

I looked down. On my left wrist was a shiny red band with my name on it.

"I..." Cassandra mumbled. "I was going to ask you what that was."

Sleep well, my dears.